


everybody owes something to everybody else

by orphan_account



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Frottage, M/M, i said that i kind of wanted to write something sordid, slow burn kinda i guess, well it fucking is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9534818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mitch is kind of loud in quiet ways, he decides. Like he’s a naturally shy person trapped in a body that’s determined to be obnoxious - he seems a little anxious regularly but then almost accidentally puts on a thousand-watt smile when he needs to. For a short guy he takes up too much space and Adam's 99% sure he spotted a lovebite on Mitch’s neck before he turned his collar up. It's a distracting puzzle that's stopping him getting too nervous about the racing so he indulges it through the sponsor events before the track walk.





	1. circling a city that's higher than the sky

**Author's Note:**

> Thank to valentineskid and sebaurouge for cheerleading me through this immense garbage. As always, I can only apologise and it truly does disgust me as well. Work & chapter titles from Monkeys Uptown by Iron & Wine.

Adam is profoundly relieved it’s Mitch. Or well, not that he disliked any of them but Mitch seems surprisingly mature, like he’ll probably be able to get along with him - eager to progress but his career having, if not quite as much as Adam’s own, slowed to enough of a grind that he’s not desperate to prove a point by fucking his teammate over.

He’s smart and much more grounded, sensible than he’d feared a hothead 22-year-old could be. The only flair Adam sees of something else, during testing, is when he catches Mitch and Lynn in some heated discussion that looks almost like they might punch each other, semi-grappling behind some portacabins. But they’re young and stressed and know each other, there’s bound to be a tension there.

So he’s relieved when it’s confirmed, not least for himself. Going into a new series he likes the idea of a younger driver - not that he can offer any specific expertise but he’s got the patience, at least. And the works driver experience. Mitch can get on with the horrifying fitness tests and extra-curricular promotional nonsense.

Mitch sort of knows some of the others, too, which is nice because Adam feels both over-experienced in the sense of being a rookie much older than well over half the grid and completely at a loss because, well, it’s been awhile since he was in single seaters and there’s a chance not to be blown, here. 

Which is why he’s glad it’s Mitch - they seem to be on a level about the realism, here. That they’ve got work to do and so does the team and fingers crossed they can make something of it and he’s trying not to get his hopes too far up because he’s a little old for a crushing defeat. Mitch seems eerily similar - like he can’t take the idea of a build-up and just wants to get his head down and work, which is perfect.

Mitch is useful at the factory, if anything slightly over-enthusiastic about getting stuck into the most tedious bits and any last bit of nerves Adam has about working with him is completely lost when this young, cool-looking Kiwi slides into the seat next to him at the last meeting before Hong Kong and proceeds to throw a cup of coffee straight into his own lap.

The younger man looks so completely offended by - in order - the cup his fancy latte-or-whatever came in, his now-soaked jeans, the total inability of the napkin Adam offers him to make the slightest difference to the situation and ultimately, himself. It’s the first time Adam’s seem him look really young - and awkward, self-conscious. 

In the flesh, at least. Adam had looked back at photos from testing and seen the tension in Mitch, the way he was almost whinily close to his manager/mentor but he’d been too distracted trying not to fuck up himself to notice it at the time. 

Watching his wet, unhappy new teammate attempt to make it through the meeting with a few shreds of dignity, despite the fact his crotch is drenched in rapidly cooling, milky froth, reassures him. Mitch is clearly not  _ pleased  _ with the situation but after the initial shock, instead of throwing the hissy fit it looked as though he might be going into, he just tightens his jaw and gets on with it, discomfort and all. 

Later, he catches Mitch standing in his socks to stick his jeans under the hand-dryer and makes no comment, other than a sympathetic smile that Mitch eagerly returns. He’s a good kid. Adam’s a bit surprised he doesn’t have fancier underwear than slightly ratty, unexpectedly purple briefs.

Mitch falls asleep on him in a taxi from the airport in Hong Kong, three people squished into the back seat as jetlag prioritises getting to the hotel faster over personal space. He’s feeling the tiredness drag himself but this is Mitch’s third long-haul flight in ten days so he resists the urge to tease him about it, the younger man’s groggy embarrassment reassuring that he isn’t going to spend every trip being used as a drool-absorption device. He’s got kids for that. 

Mitch lingers with him in the hotel lobby, waiting for their keys whilst PRs and hospitality managers and the entire team structure tries to work itself out for the first time, in situ. The Kiwi is clearly about four seconds away from falling asleep on the floor and Adam’s just thinking slightly fond things about how he’s glad not to be the knackered old man, of the two of them when someone rugby tackles Mitch into the sofa. 

It’s Daniel Abt, laughing gleefully and clearly extremely pleased with the armful of Adam’s confused teammate he’s managed to capture. Mitch wakes up quick enough, fighting back as soon as he manages to free his arm from his bag so he can thwack Daniel in the face before the German flips him onto his back and pins him down, laughing.

Adam realises he should probably look away - Daniel’s clearly not hurting Mitch and the type of fun they look like they might be having isn’t a spectator sport. Not an appropriate one, anyway. Daniel  _ might  _ just be growling something threatening about beating Mitch on track but since he’s doing it straight into the younger man’s neck, making Mitch throw his head back slightly and close his eyes, it’s not quite press conference banter. 

He pretends to look at his phone, keeping Mitch and Daniel in his peripheral vision. He’d sort of wondered about this - it was a known unspoken in motorsport but everyone here seemed so much more… if not per se  _ progressive  _ then definitely less-of-a-fuck-giving and Mitch had slightly tipped his own radar about it, albeit not with any intent. Abt’s well known as a lovable skank and for a second Adam’s a little bit jealous, if Mitch can get in with them all like that but also good luck to him because Adam’s got zero interest in screwing excitable twenty-something vloggers.

Mitch gets the upper hand in the end, wrestles Daniel off him whilst the German smirks enough to suggest he doesn’t think it’s a defeat to be pinned under Mitch. Being a young driver is wild. 

Abt wriggles off the sofa when one of his team shouts at him to hurry up, jogs off across the lobby with a wolfish grin thrown back to Mitch. Who’s sitting on the sofa looking a bit dazed, rubbing his own face and clearly slipping straight back into barely-awake. 

He’s quiet all the way up in the lift, not doing more than nodding at the PR telling them what time dinner is and he looks pathetically grateful when Adam says he’ll give him a wake up knock and Mitch gives him an extremely sleepy, thought-jumbling hug before he staggers through the door.

He heads into his own room and kind of surprises himself by having a quick shower wank, thinking of home and his own bed, before he settles down for ninety minutes of gloriously dreamless sleep, face-down on hotel sheets.

Mitch looks much more awake when he knocks on his door fifteen minutes before they’re supposed to be downstairs. Adam had left it as long as humanly possible, mostly for himself after hitting snooze the first time felt borderline orgasmic but also slightly for Mitch - he remembers how brutal the international travel is, had missed it and completely not.

Much more awake but crucially not very dressed, dark hair dripping in his face as more droplets run down his chest and waist to the comedically oversized, over-fluffy towel he’s wrapped there. Adam can definitely see what Abt was looking so pleased about getting his hands on, there - as well as a self-consciousness that says Mitch isn’t anything like as cocky as he pretends to be about it. Again, being young is wild - if Adam was single with those abs he’d be permanently shirtless.

He ends up awkwardly sitting on the end of Mitch’s bed (which looks unhappily rumpled with the kind of confused, restless sleep you only have when you’re hallucinogen-grade exhausted) while the younger man rummages in his suitcase, setting up what sounds like a nervous chatter about the evening ahead of them. Adam’s own brain is defocusing on what Mitch is saying in favour of realising how hungry he is and also that Mitch’s hotel room isn’t very  _ sexy.  _

Which of course it isn’t - hotel rooms aren’t, they don’t have the personality but also clearly Mitch is not planning to have sex. The side of the bed he didn’t sleep on is covered in clothes, a tangle of charge cables and there’s an iPad under his pillow like he’d quieted himself down with some kind of Netflix white noise. 

So maybe him and Abt were actually just playing. Or Mitch is too tired to give his libido any attention. Or he reckons Daniel doesn’t deserve a clean bed, of course but Adam’s pretty sure his teammate is fussy enough to not fuck in a pile of clothes. But then Daniel must have his own room and really he needs to stop thinking about Mitch’s sex life, the man’s twelve years younger than Adam - maybe millennials don’t even do it in old-fashioned beds.

Mitch pauses halfway through an anecdote, looking quite young as he toes his shoes on slightly clumsily, fiddling with cufflinks. “Have they got us team thermals yet?”

He nearly laughs because it’s such a non-sequitur and honestly who cares but of course Mitch does. Adam’s seen his profound relief to have escaped the bright yellow overalls for the distinctly more grown-up Jaguar ones so he settles for just shrugging and commenting that the team’s probably waiting for them. 

“Yeah I’m fucking starving, think I forgot to eat on the plane again.” Mitch finally stops fiddling with his wrists, gets his feet into his shoes and straightens up to full height, at the same time as Adam stands up and attempts to suppress looking  _ too  _ pleased that he’s finally got a teammate shorter than himself.

The team meal goes well enough given everyone’s a little out of their depth and nervous - engineers clearly vibrating with anticipatory nerves about getting the cars together and him and Mitch not really faring any better as soon as it’s all so clearly  _ real.  _ Mitch looks a little… overexcited by the end of the meal and maybe it’s just as well there’s another couple of days before the actual race because there had been a fair amount of champagne, now he thinks about it. 

He’s just thinking he needs a coffee before he Skypes the kids, trying to calculate time differences with minimal success when Mitch  _ bounces  _ up to him and asks if he wants to come for a drink with Antonio and Jean-Eric. Or well, ‘ask’ is probably too specific a word for the babbly sort of excited projection his teammate manages to garble out about someone having messaged him on Instagram but Adam kind of gathered the gist.

He demurs, feeling entirely too fuzzy already and potters up to his room via an inadvisably large espresso. It definitely perks him up enough to stop him slurring, keeps him awake enough to feel the heartache of them being so far away beneath the excitement of the racing. 

Then it keeps him alert through a shower he’s forgotten is his second of the evening, twenty minutes of desultory channel-flicking, three chapters of the book he’s reading and an uncharacteristic contemplation of a second wank of the day because what the fuck is he, fourteen? But then hotels have always been weird for that.

He’s just thinking he might call Claire again but doesn’t want to seem, you know,  _ needy  _ already because she puts up with enough of his shit when he hears someone clatter into the room next door and realises it must be a not-especially-sober Mitch. Which he’s a little surprised by because something about the way Mitch had said Antonio had asked him out made it sound like he’d, you know,  _ asked him out  _ and that had all made perfect sense. 

Not that he’d been spending any extra time vicariously thinking about his teammate’s sex life but Antonio made a lot more sense than Daniel Abt. He seemed like a really nice, genuine dude and so fucking enthusiastic about the series - also him and Mitch go way back, which means they could be old teenage flames and that’s kind of adorable and he really needs not to get in any way invested in or concerned with who Mitch is fucking.

He vaguely pretends he’s not listening for any signs of two people in the room but it sounds awfully like Mitch has gone for a traditional fully-dressed bed-flop. Young people, can’t hold their drink. Shouldn’t he be, like, injecting heroin via an app and tweeting about it?

Deciding he’s definitely gone through to the weird side of tiredness, he sticks his head under a cold shower for a few minutes and then drifts off to sleep under the aircon, spooning a pillow because he is a grown up who misses his wife, dammit. 

\--------

If Mitch did get a bit sloshed the previous night he irritatingly shows very little sign of it at breakfast, munching on a piece of melon while scrolling through something on his phone and humming tunelessly in a way Adam is very sure is nerves. He slices a banana into his own porridge and tries to resist the urge to drink more of the coffee than is strictly necessary, to avoid a repeat of the previous night.

Mitch is kind of loud in quiet ways, he decides. Like he’s a naturally shy person trapped in a body that’s determined to be obnoxious - he seems a little anxious regularly but then almost accidentally puts on a thousand-watt smile when he needs to. And right now he’s pretty much jiggling with what has to be nervousness and yet somehow what’s coming off him is an incredibly strong minty smell that must be his shower gel. 

For a short guy he takes up too much space and Adam's 99% sure he spotted a lovebite on Mitch’s neck before he turned his collar up but unless he's extremely stealthy there was no bedroom action last night. It's a distracting puzzle that's stopping him getting too nervous about the racing so he indulges it through the sponsor events before the track walk. 

Mitch is clingy, which fits because GP2 stick together and Adam still kind of misses it. Also occasionally Adam catches him looking about fifteen years old and hopelessly out of his depth, which is sort of cute. 

They end up in some ridiculous boat trip thing with all the other drivers and Adam stands with Nick having a catch up, watching his teammate take selfies with Abt and Da Costa. 

“He gets around, doesn't he?” Adam nearly chokes on his sparkling water because he never would have expected that sort of gossip from Nick but then, these are different times, different series. 

Nick looks at his slight cough kind of pityingly, like Adam may have not realised this “What? They all do. Frijns and Da Costa are virtually married.”

Which is interesting knowledge. What kind of idiot let them be teammates? Adam gives up the pretense that he's not openly trying to work out who his teammate is about to blow, lips wet and swollen from anticipatory licking. “Is Felix nice?”

Nick laughs at him but it's conspiratory, kind - “We can't set them up, they'll work it out themselves.”

Well, whatever, at least Adam's not the only one worrying about his teammate’s sex life. Mitch is sandwiched between Sam and Pechito, posing for Instagram with Jose’s nose in his hair and Sam's head tucked on his shoulder. He really needs to stop feeling jealous, he's sure he could fuck Di Grassi if he really wanted to. 

Later they go through a race briefing and Mitch is quiet, serious, sober and entirely committed to studying what they're supposed to be looking at. Slutty nerds now, who would've thought? 

Race prep puts the whole thing out of his mind for nearly 24 hours. God, he's so fucking into having a proper seat again and not having to fight for sponsorship or any shit like that. 

He finds himself settling into a nice deep think about how well everything has worked out, despite all the heartache and how much he misses the little ones, how glad he is to have a chance to make them proud, sprawling on his bed after a last Friday night workout. Maybe it’s the humidity but he’s just pondering the wisdom of sticking a nice, reassuring hand down his own pants when someone knocks on the door. 

He knows without opening it that it’s Mitch. There’s a particular sort of nerves that leave you looking for your teammate the night before a race and he can’t pretend it hadn’t occurred to him but he figured staying stoic was a better look. 

His teammate is wearing soft tracksuit trousers and a hoodie that looks too warm for Hong Kong - it looks like a comfort routine and Adam’s vaguely relieved it definitely isn’t remotely seductive because he isn’t sure he could cope with that. 

Mitch smiles apologetically at him when he opens the door, “Sorry, I’m just - brain can’t turn off, you know?”

“Yeah, it’s alright. Me too.” 

Mitch stands helplessly in the hallway for a minute, then talks really fast “Also can I hide in your room for like an hour because I think Dan’s trying to shag me?”

Adam blinks, very slightly taken aback, “Uh, sure?”

Mitch has his iPad with him, curls straight up in the armchair to watch Vikings with one earphone in and Adam’s briefly at a loss for what to do in his own room, restlessly pours and drinks a glass of water for no real reason. He flops down on his bed, digging out his own tablet from the bedside table and pretends not to be watching Mitch until he can’t resist the question.

“So you’re not fucking Daniel, then?”

His teammate  _ squirms  _ in the chair, like he’s been dying to talk about this and also never, ever wants to talk about it. “No.”

Adam  _ almost  _ gives in to giving Mitch a conversational out but well, he is a dad, he’s pretty good at wheedling stuff out of awkward children so just makes a slightly surprised noise and pretends to be more involved in getting a perfect score on Peggle than he really is. 

“No, like - I don’t know, I know he wants to and I guess I kind of want to? I don’t know. I’ve known him for fucking years. But like, he keeps talking about a fucking orgy and I’m - like, I think I have a reputation? But I don’t know why, it must be fucking Richie or someone spreading it about because I’m certainly fucking not and even  _ Mark’s  _ on at me about being a slag like  _ ‘don’t do the whole grid before the third race’ _ ” - Mitch’s elaborate air quotes and eye roll just about provide enough punctuation that Adam’s confident he’s at least taken a breath before steaming on- “but I swear I’ve never got off with  _ any of them  _ apart from Alex that one time and he fucking dumped me for Pierre so it put me off a bit, you know?”

Mitch looks a combination of outraged, absolutely furious and completely embarrassedly upset. Adam decides to park the Alex revelation somewhere in the back of his brain - that would probably explain the grappling, assuming it’s Lynn and finds himself feeling quite sympathetic. He’d never gone in for it, himself - romantic entanglements in the paddock seemed like a bad addition to his problems 

“Orgy?” Ok, he’s sympathetic and a little mean but Mitch did invade his room, here.

The younger man pulls the earphone out of his ear almost violently, hits pause on Ragnar getting his ass handed to him by Lagertha and sighs heavily. “Yeah, he wants to  _ ‘introduce me to the grid’ _ ” - again with the aggressive air quotes, his new teammate would make a great diva if he ever lost his grounding - “which I think means him and Lucas take turns.”

Adam winces sympathetically - even if he’s not quite sure of the details that sounds a bit intense. He decides to divert the conversation - “Felix seems nice.”

“Ugh, no, no Scandinavians - spent way too long trying to hold hands with awkward fucking Russians.” Mitch curls up on himself, hugs one of his own knees and looks a bit pathetic. “Sorry, you probably don’t want to know any of this, I’m just - fuck’s sake, you know?”

Adam doesn’t really but nods anyway. “You’re really not fucking any of them?”

Mitch huffs at him, “Don’t you start. And no, I’m fucking not - probably need to get past third base with someone before I go in for the gang bang.”

“What, anyone  _ ever?” _ That is surprising. His brain helpfully supplies the image of Mitch dripping wet from the shower and he has what he’d comfortably classify as Bad Thoughts for a few seconds. 

“No - no, like, obviously. Just not on the grid.” Mitch stares out the window for a few seconds. “Well, except Carlos. Not the same grid, anyway.”

He can’t help smiling a bit indulgently. Mitch looks somewhat distant, like that one might have been a heartbreaker that he’s not quite over still - young love is sort of adorable and if his teammate’s as apparently innocent as he didn’t seem to be then he probably falls quite hard. 

This is probably a bad idea but when Mitch looks back he pats the bed next to him. His teammate looks a bit uncertain, which is fairly understandable given the conversational context but Adam shakes his head and shrugs - he’s got no interest in screwing Mitch but the young man looks pretty pathetic and he’s got some spare paternal urge sloshing around. 

He lets Mitch rest against his shoulder, not exactly hugging and still involved in their separate tablets until Adam admits he’s paying no attention to anything other than Ragnar’s marital woes and shifts enough to not be craning his neck to look at the iPad in Mitch’s lap. 

His teammate kind of… well,  _ snuggles  _ into him and Adam feels he owes it to the dude, having spilled enough of his secrets just now, to not call him on it. He’s never heard anyone actually directly admit to being queer in motorsport before - and clearly not just for an adrenaline-fuelled fumble, if getting dumped upset him that much and he’s not just in it for a slutty time. 

Mitch offers him the other earphone and they sit in silence, Mitch halfway curled up and seeming a bit far away while Adam inadvertently gets completely overinvested in how dumb this fucking series is and how can the fucking History channel even look themselves in the face in the mirror with these blatant innaccuracies? But also he kind of wants to wave a sword around a bit now. 

“I guess I should just get over it and fuck them. After the race, though.” Mitch sounds thoughtful and although Adam’s surprised he’s still willing to talk about this maybe it’s a dam that’s irreparable once it’s burst. 

“You don’t have to - just because Abt’s a slag doesn’t mean you have to get in his pants.” He gives into the urge and puts his arm round Mitch - he’s a bit sad at the idea of the younger man letting Daniel and Lucas fuck him like a rag doll just to fit in or whatever it is he’s decided on it for.

“Hmm.” Mitch sounds very cynical, “It’d probably be fun.”

Adam decides to stay quiet on that one - sure, probably. He’s not an expert in gay sex but he feels like Mitch has to be able to do better than that, at least emotionally. But he’s probably just being old and conservative - if teammate orgies are things now then maybe that’s just what the kids are into?

Which suddenly makes him very aware he’s kind of cuddling his own, declaredly queer teammate on his bed. Fuck, this has escalated quickly and entirely accidentally - he hopes Mitch doesn’t think he’s being a creep, he likes the guy and has always treasured his reputation as a good bloke, doesn’t really want to acquire a predator tag.

Mitch curls into him more for a second and he tries not to react, which inevitably makes him awkward and wooden when the young man’s arm wraps round his waist for a second, squeezes very briefly and then Mitch is standing up and yawning. “Sorry - thank you.”

Adam feels a bit blindsided for a second, wonders if he’s still jetlagged as he pads over to the door, following Mitch to show him out. “What episode was that?”

Mitch looks genuinely excited for a second, “Two, season three - you can borrow it if you want to watch the rest?”

Adam shakes his head - he genuinely ought to sleep, sort his head out quietly for awhile. “Nah - thank you, though.” 

He opens the door basically  _ onto _ Daniel Abt, who is either lurking or has timing considerably more incredible than he ever remembers seeing the man possess when braking into a corner. Mitch tenses and he has a moment of inspiration that he’ll probably spend the rest of the weekend, if not his life, regretting and half-pats, half-appreciatively strokes his teammate’s arse.

Mitch looks understandably confused for a second, spinning round so Adam can bury his nose in the shorter man’s dark hair and murmur, in what he’s been told is a seductive tone, “You get a good rest, we can carry on after the race.”

Mitch turns adorably pink - looking accidentally but entirely like he’s a bit post-coital flushed - and shoots a grateful look to him, tucking his body into Adam’s for a second before he heads off down the corridor, grinning at a slightly shocked looking Abt. 

He tries really hard not to wonder if Mitch also has a wank in the shower. He’s far too old to be getting this overexcited on a bit of cuddling and subterfuge, for goodness’ sake - don’t go round thinking you’re smart, Carroll.

\------

They do carry on the next night, Mitch clearly a little affronted by car betrayal and Adam quietly pleased but happy enough to find out what happens to Athelstan, with whom he’s developed a semi-unhealthy level of sympathy.

Mitch props the iPad on Adam’s stomach, kind of curls up against his side and he probably ought to say no because this is a bit teenage but then Mitch is about twelve years old and he’s achey and tired enough from the race to indulge it. 

He thinks Lagertha should leave stupid Ragnar for Athelstan like she clearly wants to. Or maybe they should all fuck - turning that down did seem a bit idiotic, frankly. Vikings were probably riddled with STIs, though - it’d be like getting involved with the fucking Rebellion lot.

He shifts the arm that’s half around Mitch’s shoulders and his teammate cuddles closer for a second, an arm resting over Adam’s waist. He concentrates very, very hard on not moving an inch, suddenly and tries not to pay too much attention to the sex scene noises in his right ear or Mitch’s quiet breathing in his left because he's got absolutely no idea what to do with the knowledge his teammate has a boner.

Mitch doesn't really  _ seem  _ horny as much as a bit sad about the race and possibly lonely. Definitely lonely - Adam's noticed he doesn't seem to cope well with being on his own generally and feeling too much like he wanted to lick his wounds quietly and not curse the season by thinking it'll carry on this way to party with the others must have stung a little. 

He lets go of the breath he’s holding and decides to do a series of stupid things that his brain is already outraged at him about. Watching Ragnar and Lagertha grind, he strokes his hand down Mitch’s back, gently, barely moving and trying to be soothing more than anything else, get Mitch to relax into him. 

He can feel the tension in the younger driver’s shoulders, the way he’s avoiding leaning any closer to Adam, holding his hips back from brushing his cock against Adam’s leg. He moves his thumb in a steady circle, pressing against the ridges of Mitch’s spine and slowly, slowly coaxing him in. 

Adam isn’t sure why he’s doing it. He’s only meant to be  _ pretending  _ to sleep with Mitch and also he doesn’t really  _ want  _ to - or at least feels like he wants to put quite a lot more thought into it than the weird pull he’s feeling currently to be pubescently irresponsible. He kind of just wants Mitch to come close, press against his leg so he can feel him - it’s more confirming that it’s really happening, than anything else, so he can process this later and he’s not even  _ that  _ sorry about the fact it’ll probably embarrass Mitch a little bit.

Mitch is almost vibrating with tension, Adam’s hand on his back stopping him moving further away but he can tell neither of them is paying the slightest bit of attention to the battlescene playing out on Adam’s abdomen. Mitch’s breathing has turned a little shallow, like he’s panicking a little or anticipating something and Adam deliberately keeps his even, deep, almost pretending to be sleepy. 

After a few more minutes of very gently stroking Mitch he tenses his arm, bundles him close and shifts his own hips to be flush against Mitch’s crotch in one sudden, stealthy movement that he’s been setting up for ages. Mitch makes a small noise, tightens his arm on Adam’s waist for a second and then mutters  _ “sorrysorrysorry”  _ with his eyes closed.

Adam shrugs, pulls him closer again via his steel-tensed shoulders and murmurs “ _ yeralright”  _ into Mitch’s hair. His teammate stays completely tense against him and for a second Adam thinks he should let go, that he’s misinterpreted this and that he’s scaring Mitch but then the younger man lets out a breath so fast it’s almost like a sob and nuzzles up to him completely, lets Adam curl his arm round him to stroke across his back, feeling the tension dissipate out of tired muscles.

He doesn’t say anything about the fact he can feel Mitch’s dick against his hip. It’s not the first time he’s been ...involved with seems like too strong a phrase for this, really -  _ in contact _ with someone else’s dick but it has been really quite awhile. Also although Mitch has calmed down enough to be clinging to him slightly, he seems kind of upset and embarrassed about it rather than seductive.

Adam carries on stroking his back, reaches up to thread his fingers through Mitch’s hair and hear him make a very quiet, soft noise in the back of his throat. Oh, Mitch is  _ needy  _ \- and lonelier than Adam even thought. No wonder he’d started talking himself into Daniel’s offer; a rough fuck might be better than nothing.

He stares at the ceiling for a minute, trying to process what’s going on. Which is kind of nothing, he’s just got his arm round his teammate while they’re watching telly and Mitch happens to have a boner. Not that surprising - there is an awful lot of sex in Vikings, it’s clearly one for saving up to see when he’s not looking after the kids. 

Mitch’s breath is hot against his chest, making his t-shirt slightly damp in the humid air despite the aircon. It’s weirdly grounding for something that’s basically the source of the slightly destabilising feeling he’s got running through him, a bit like being halfway drunk. 

He is kind of tipsy on Mitch, he guesses, breathing in the clean smell of the younger man’s hair. He half wishes they were a bit drunk, entirely to give himself an excuse but it’s better to do this honestly, sober. They could just stop here, at a vaguely inappropriate cuddle where Mitch’s youthful body has betrayed him, his cock twitching where it’s pressed against Adam’s leg and he wonders how long it’s been since anyone touched his teammate like this.

He’d kind of assumed Mitch’s life was probably pretty sex-filled, looking like that and being a horrific flirt. But the little Kiwi does spend an awful lot of time a) in the gym, to get that body, b) on planes, to get to c) races. If he’s really not getting off with any of his little GP2 clan then it could’ve been a pretty long time since Mitch rubbed his dick on anyone - for a twenty-two year old, anyway. 

Adam’s pretty pleased his own life has worked out to involve having really quite a lot of sex with the person he loves most in the world. While he suspects Mitch would do pretty well at finding anonymous bodies to fall into beds or doorways or club bathrooms with, he’s suddenly very aware the boy seems to be kind of shy and untrusting about it - which probably means he still does it and gets fuck-all satisfaction from it. Adam remembers being 22 and reasonably good looking himself, after all.

Mitch being lonely is no reason for him to suddenly break all the habits of a lifetime in racing and start touching his teammate’s dick, though. The sensible thing to do would be to leave this here, let the episode end and Mitch shuffle off for a shower wank or whatever his preferred sad masturbation habit is. Adam can kind of imagine him humping his sheets into a rumpled mess, coming in his pants before he curls up for a sleep full of anxiety dreams. 

Probably best to keep mental images of Mitch in a ruffled, angry-sleepy pile with spunk on his fingers out of his head, really. It would be extremely easy for him to roll his teammate over and wank him off, right now and extremely easy doesn’t feel right. Having dragged Mitch to this tipping point, he feels like he needs to give him something that couldn’t be misconstrued as a casual orgasm donation or back off entirely.

Mitch sighs against him, whimpers slightly - Adam understands, he’s reeled him in and then left the guy hanging, not sure if he’s allowed to do more than press against him and shudder slightly under his hand where he’s stroking him still. 

“Hey,” Adam shifts slightly, deliberately presses his hip against Mitch’s cock and grins at the little gasp it gets out of the younger driver - he’s pretty hot, still. Even if he wasn’t, it feels like Mitch is so desperate for touch it doesn’t really matter who the body is so long as they’re good to him. 

He strokes his fingers through the younger man’s hair again, feels Mitch shiver against him despite the fact he’s burning with heat. Mitch makes a keening noise for a second and then seems to pull himself together, wrestles down the embarrassment to sound a little demanding when he asks, “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” Adam decides honesty is the best policy, “Are you ok with it?”

Mitch makes a weird noise, finally presses himself right up against Adam and grinds lightly, breathing noisily. “I don’t know. Yeah. Are you?”

Adam thinks about it for a few seconds, feeling Mitch go completely tense against him again before he moves the iPad to the bedside table, rolls over slightly and brings his teammate close. Mitch makes a surprised noise - and Adam really wants to stop thinking about the fact he’s as subtly loud here as he ever is, that Mitch probably vocalises everything when he’s having sex, sighs and gasps and whines falling from him like a striptease.

He doesn’t want to kiss him, doesn’t want to come himself - although Mitch’s gasp was from feeling that Adam’s been as hard as he has for the last ten minutes. Turns out a warm, needy body against his has as much appeal as it ever has and Mitch is, in retrospect, a fucking awful temptation that he’s completely, totally and immediately failed to resist. 

Mitch moans when he snakes a hand between them, traces Mitch’s cock through his trousers - this feels like the right thing. Close touches, holding Mitch against himself and letting the younger man’s fingers dig into his waist, gasping every time Adam squeezes his cock but it’s still not quite anything too far, too sordid or pornographic. 

“Please,” Mitch is whining against his collarbone, head tucked low as though he’s hiding against Adam, “Please fuck me.”

_ Fuck.  _ Adam decides to ignore it - he wants to make Mitch come but there’s at least a few awkward conversations he needs to have before doing anything more and probably several long dark nights of the soul wondering what kind of moral decay he’s apparently allowed to set in the second he gets back to open-wheel racing. 

Mitch whines again, wordlessly this time and trembles against him. It’s hot and reactive and  _ wrong  _ \- the illicitness is definitely a lot of the turn on, his own breathing going more ragged than he’d expect for barely being touched. His teammate is in a complete state, the nervous holding-back of earlier entirely abandoned in favour of urgently humping Adam’s hand where he’s touching him, the fabric of Mitch’s trousers damp with the sweat from his palm and Mitch’s body.

Mitch’s cock is hot and hard and heavy, through the fabric and Adam knows he shouldn’t be fucking doing this. He doesn’t want to get his hand any closer, to wind it into Mitch’s clothes but the feel of him, desperate and young and clingy, is horrible and really, really lovely.

It all feels like a ridiculous tease, like the entire short time they’ve known each other has led to this point and when Mitch bites a mouthful of Adam’s t-shirt into his mouth to stifle the noise he makes when he comes, he feels nothing but satisfied, stroking him gently still, bringing him through it as his teammate bucks against him, breathing hard.

When he stops coming, gets his breath back, Adam deliberately doesn’t let him out of his arms - moves the hand to Mitch’s waist because  _ he  _ wants a cuddle after, even if Mitch can live without it. He’s just completely fucked his usual morals, he needs a bit of comfort.

“Fuck, sorry. Fuck.” Mitch is still tucked into him and Adam feels a flash of something strong, hearing him apologise.

“Don’t be. Come here.” He lets Mitch curl around him, one leg slung over his hips, until he’s settled down to a drowsy lull. 

Mitch keeps mumbling apologies and he tries to make soothing noises, suddenly way out of his depth again. Like he’s ever been able to get a toe on the floor of this fucking well he’s eased himself into - he tries to will his own erection out of existence, thinking of Claire and the kids and anything but the hot, damp weight of someone he never should’ve had in his fucking bed - jesus, what the fuck?

Once Mitch has quieted down enough that he’s just feeling awkward and a little wet, on his left thigh - which is completely disgusting and smugness inducing, behind the walls of guilt his brain is rapidly constructing - he tries to very gently wrestle him into a comfier position, which goes rapidly wrong. Mitch practically  _ jumps _ out of sleepy satedness and like, of course, he’s fucking twelve, it won’t knock him out the way sex can give Adam the quietest rest of his life, happy and loving. 

Instead Mitch wriggles against him, suddenly all fingers and hands in a way Adam can’t seem to get a hold on let alone control and before he knows what’s happening, Mitch is crouching on his knees and nosing at Adam’s fly so fast he nearly shouts it, although it comes out hoarse when he says “No-”

Big, dark eyes look up at him with a world of hurt. “No, not - not now. You’re good.”

Mitch looks at him quizzically and with the same angst present and he feels his stomach flip. “Just - not tonight. Come here.”

He didn’t want to do this - he’s not sure what he was thinking of doing with Mitch when he’d finished touching him but grabbing him into a spooning hug wasn’t one of the things he’d had in mind, feeling his teammate go weakly limp in his arms, sad again. Adam hates himself for the heart-lurch, grabbing at the younger man and rocking him slightly in his arms, feeling both the fight to sulk and the desire to prove something slowly go out of Mitch, overheated where their bodies are pressed together, his nose in the soft hair at the back of Mitch’s neck.

He wakes up to an empty, rumpled bed that smells of sex and spearmint and tries really fucking hard to work out what time it is in the UK and how long he can spend in the shower before they have to get the flight.


	2. told you not to fuck around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol what is this sorry

They don't talk about it. Well, he and Mitch don't anyway - Claire immediately spots he's in a state about something and gets the whole sordid thing out of him in a time so short he'd feel bad about it if she didn't know him so very well, in every way. Her comment that at least Mitch isn't a grid girl is delivered with sympathy but cuts at him harder than the fact his teammate doesn't text.

He’s not hanging after Mitch like a teenage girl, he’s just sort of heading into a hideous self-hate loop where he desperately hopes his teammate doesn’t think he’s a predatory creep or where he can find a way to think he isn’t himself. Fuck, why would his reaction to his teammate being kind of down be to pretty much embarrass the guy into coming in his pants? It seems filthy, because it is and he really hopes it isn’t going to make everything appallingly awkward.

Somehow, everything conspires that they don’t see each other for a couple of slightly agonising weeks - and when they do, it’s in way too much company to contemplate doing anything other than being a good boy for the media or whatever. He’s enjoying developing the car, cracking on with watching the team come together and trying not to think about his teammate’s love life because he’s not an actual gossip rag and it’s none of his fucking business. Getting Mitch off one time doesn’t make him anything other than a bit of a sleaze.

But then what the fuck does one not-even-really-a-handjob matter on the scale of things? He hopes Mitch isn’t fucking the others. Which is weird and selfish - like, unless it’s Felix, Rosenqvist seems like he’d be a good boyfriend - but he worries about the younger man. Anyone who’ll let their teammate rub them off in their clothes seems kind of… vulnerable, maybe. And said teammate seems like an asshole.

Maybe he’s reading too much into it? Mitch might not be thinking about it at all. He tries to push it all out of his brain and mostly succeeds, busy enough with the prep for Marrakesh and everything else in his life.

At inopportune times, though - like when he’s brushing his teeth or sitting at a red light or halfway through making dinner - he’s suddenly poleaxed by the memory of Mitch begging him to fuck him. If it hadn’t been for that - maybe - he could stop thinking about it but _fuck,_ did he even mean it? Had he wanted Adam to take it that far?

He finds himself standing in Boots two days before the flight to Morocco, feeling as furtive as a thirteen-year-old trying to nick a copy of Hustler, looking at the mostly-baffling array of lube. Would Mitch like it to be warming? Probably not, Marrakesh is quite hot and also he’s so _not_ going to shag his teammate.

Claire had laughed at him about it last night, made some quite filthy jokes about him needing to marry Mitch to be allowed to bed him there, while doing something completely wicked with a cock ring that was still making him feel slightly lightheaded. He doesn’t want to actually have sex with Mitch, is the problem - at least, he doesn’t really think he does but if he asked him again he’s not sure he’d want to disappoint the younger man.

Or maybe they’ll just never end up in close physical proximity again and this is all a complete non-problem. Which would, to his massive annoyance at himself, be really upsetting. For the love of god, this is meant to finally be his proper grown-up opportunity.

He buys the unflavoured, straightforward stuff in the end. And a packet of three condoms, he’s not a complete idiot despite what basically everything he’s done in the last month is telling him.

Whenever he lets himself overthink it - which is occasionally irresistible, on a long run or in the shower or whatever, the temptation to distract himself too great - he seems to be concentrating on different details. Like the fact Mitch had come to him on the Friday, clearly thought Adam was someone he could trust - he’s not sure they even know each other well enough to be called friends, yet and they’re going to have to fight it out on track but Mitch seems like someone who’s big on respect.

And the way Mitch had, damp and clearly a bit confused, fallen asleep in his arms - unhappily embarrassed but seemingly hungry for affection. He hadn’t known how closely he ought to spoon him - didn’t want to rub his dick on Mitch’s arse but wanted to hold him, all the guilt he should have felt for working Mitch up turning into his own sort of neediness for his teammate to still like him, still trust him.

He doesn’t think Mitch stayed very long - maybe half an hour after whenever Adam finally fell asleep, sweatily curled around him. It had been long enough - fuck knows what they would have done if they’d woken up together, been able to make that slow crawl to wakefulness from between tangled limbs. He thinks he probably would’ve wanted to kiss him, then, in a way he hadn’t the previous night and that’s a line not to cross lazily.

The way Mitch had curled into him, hiding against Adam’s shoulder like he couldn’t look him in the face while he was getting him off had made him feel deeply weird. It was why he wanted to hold him, after - he doesn’t want Mitch to feel ashamed about it, while he’s simultaneously beating himself up so severely about all the ways he was an awkward, self-indulgent idiot that he can hardly blame his teammate if it’s not all puppies and rainbows, self-esteem-wise.

Eventually he realises that actually he can also text Mitch. In the taxi on the way to the airport might not be the best moment to have had this revelation but he does actually have quite a busy life outside the loop his own brain has been throwing him into. He fires off a quick message about there better being somewhere in the airport that does good coffee and pretends he isn’t anxiously waiting for the response.

Mitch replies suspiciously quickly - not instantaneous but within enough minutes that it seems like he probably opened the message straight away and then spent awhile trying to work out what to say back. Given that, it’s a pretty vague comment about probably not but Mitch’ll have to show him the good Kiwi place next time they’re in central. London, he assumes - amongst Mitch’s most obviously youthful traits his tendency to assume everyone lives where he does is probably the most stupid, given his international peer group but nevermind.

Saying they should go for coffee is good. Doesn’t sound like Mitch hates him and has just been carefully hiding it with bland media conditioning or they’re not going to be able to speak to each other. He relaxes a bit, spends the rest of the journey turning round emails and looking over the schedule for when they get to Morocco.

Mitch is standing awkwardly on the edge of a gathering of the team when he arrives, wearing an unnecessarily gigantic coat and sunglasses despite the fact it’s still dark. He’s got his phone in one hand, apparently frantically texting someone and his other hand resting on the handle of his suitcase, propped at the wrist to support the cardboard holder that’s got two cups of - presumably - coffee in it.

Adam feels very fond, nearly forgets what he’s doing for a minute but he’s dragged into a conversation about sponsor-related duties before he can get anywhere near Mitch and well, this is their job. He doesn’t even think the Kiwi’s noticed he’s arrived, so deep in whatever urgent conversation he’s thumbing but it all feels normal and some of the tension that had been coiling in his brain about the idea of spending days in Mitch’s company again relaxes.

After a few minutes, He feels a nudge at his elbow and looks round to see his teammate, sunglasses still down, holding a cup of coffee out to him, “It’s shit but it’s better than nothing.”

Adam smiles more than the exchange technically merits, nods some thanks and lets Mitch get pulled away into conversations about seat allocations, sponsor duties and - eventually, somewhere under it all - race engineering. Ok, good, it’s not going to be weird, he can just get on with things and try not to think about the prophylactics buried at the bottom of his suitcase.

He’s on the plane when the thought, entirely unbidden and unwanted, that Mitch probably has lube and stuff anyway pops into his brain like an overlay to the data he’s meant to be reading. Like, Mitch presumably has sex with men - maybe women as well, of course but he’d definitely said men - and therefore keeps the stuff in stock.

He lets himself wonder if Mitch had any in Hong Kong, staring out the window with all pretense he’s looking at the paper in his hand abandoned, even if he does shuffle it a little off the fold-down table to cover his lap. Mitch asking him to fuck him had seemed like a logical, as well as moral, emotional, possibly sexual, etc. impossibility because he might not be the world’s leading expert on homosexual frotting but he’s very certain nothing should go in anyone’s arse without lube.

But if Mitch had had stuff… presumably not _on_ him (Adam was certain from cuddling him that he’d had nothing in his pockets apart from his room key) but in the general vicinity of places they could fuck then, well, that would have been a serious offer. Or plea - it was more begging than surrendering.

So what if his teammate actually did want Adam to fuck him? Or - as is way more likely - he was saying things because he was turned on and frustrated and Adam was touching him. God, stop thinking about it; it’s bad enough when he’s just boredly searching for titillating anxiety in the gym or whatever but he’s got more than enough to occupy himself with right now.

Staring into the Spanish mountains below, he refuses to let himself shift uncomfortably. Getting an semi thinking about whether or not his teammate has lube - and if it’s like the pristine bottle in Adam’s suitcase or something well-worn, the plastic wrap half-ripped off where it’s been eagerly manhandled - is not the sort of thing 34 year olds who’ve finally got the kind of drive they want can be fucking distracting themselves with.

Ok, less of this. He needs to start thinking about how to hammer Mitch into adorably grumpy pieces on the track, not fuck him through the mattress.

Or well, maybe just cuddle him a bit. Have them rub up against each other fully clothed again, Mitch’s body tight and confusing against him. Oh for _fuck’s_ sake he’s just realised what he’s after - the memory of his first year in GP2 suddenly springing to mind, Heikki and him half-fighting, half humping each other against a tyre wall and _seriously?_ That was eleven years ago, he fucking _was_ Mitch then, no need to be fucking him now.

Weirdly it sort of settles his mind to realise he’s not just having a sudden nervous breakdown and kind of does have previous on this. Fine, he’s still a bit pubescent when it comes to racing apparently and he’s probably jealous of Mitch getting to have that kind of fun so of course he fucking - _shit._

He nearly knees the table, physically shifting with the hideous realisation he’s _pretending to fuck Mitch._ He’d kind of forgotten that in all the half-kind-of-possibly-actually-fucking-Mitch. Oh god, what the fuck kind of terrible idea was that? Daniel will have fucking told _everyone,_ possibly on YouTube.

Tilting his neck back into the headrest he decides the only possible option is to pretend to be asleep for the last hour of the flight, while having a furiously thought-induced meltdown. _Fuck,_ he’s going to have to talk to Mitch about that - just when he thought it had settled into a distractingly messy but otherwise uncomplicated situation.

It had been kind of creepy of him to do it in the first place - Mitch hadn’t really given any indication that he needed saving from Daniel, unless you count hiding in Adam’s room, which actually kind of is a fairly big hint. Ok, ok, calm down - Mitch completely gave him the in to do that, it was a bit impulsive but not actively weird. At the time, at least.

Oh _god_ they’re going to have to have a conversation. They’ve got a few days of just the team, before the main ePrix circus catches up with them and there’s got to be some point where he can - well, _has to_ \- ask Mitch if they should still be pretending to be fucking for ABT-Schaeffer spitroast avoidance purposes or if Adam’s loving application of clumsy dick-palming has got him over his fear and he’s now ready for the bukkake orgy.

That thought feels a bit mean, not least to himself. There’s a sort of odd cachet to the idea of everyone wanting Mitch and thinking he’s got him, something totally testosterone-fuelled and foolish but pretty smug anyway; Lucas can go fuck himself, literally, before he gets his filthy paws on Jaguar overalls.

For the millionth time, he finds himself just desperate to know what Mitch thinks about the whole thing. Maybe nothing, after all - he’d seemed completely blasé with Adam at Heathrow but his outbursts of romantic angst and the way he’d reacted generally suggested it hadn’t been a forgettably casual fumble for him.

Oh _god._ Adam said he’d protect him - well, not in so many words, he cuddled him a bit and then groped his arse but the intent was honourable - and then teased him into coming, fully aware he was kind of embarrassing Mitch even while he was getting him off. Made all the worse by Adam summarily ignoring when Mitch vocalised what he actually wanted - assuming he did want that and for fuck’s sake this is the stupidest thought-loop he’s ever stuck himself in.

He opens his eyes, looks down at the data again and finishes the flight worrying about the kids, rather than vividly reliving the feel of dampness flooding his palm through his teammate’s scrotty tracksuit trousers and Mitch shuddering out an apology.

\-----

Mitch _hovers_ a lot. He was doing it last time, too but Adam was less acutely aware of it at the time because the faintest whiff of mint shower gel or some aftershave that smelled too fancy for someone that young didn’t send him into an anxiety spiral about the fact he was going to have to have a conversation with his teammate over pretending to have sex with him and also actually having sex with him.

It’s like the younger man can sense the nerves and is becoming steadily clingier because of it. Or maybe he’s just a bit out of his depth and doesn’t speak very good French, of course and Adam should stop fucking over analysing things like his brain’s been re-scripted by Richard Curtis.

Supposedly, it’s not hot here currently but Adam’s well aware he’s not genetically designed for anywhere it doesn’t rain at least two thirds of the time and finds himself desperately attempting to avoid sunburn while Mitch turns a particularly enviable deep bronze. Variable weather conditions are always an interesting way to show up a teammate but this feels more like the sun taking sides.

At least Adam is infinitely better at sponsor nonsense in that he can actually hold conversations with people without apparently getting a bit nervous and turning non-verbal. Mitch is lucky he’s kind of charming and looks good enough that he’s instantly likeable anyway. And they get to do some driving soon, by which he means he gets to do some driving and Mitch gets to be a bit jealous so it’s all working out pretty well.

Being filmed is always weird, especially when you’re a bit sweaty and trying to work out if you should or shouldn’t be vaguely inappropriately touching your teammate just in case Abt watches it or more broadly in case literally anyone else does. So he’s quite proud of the physical control he clearly has that stops him nearly jumping out of his skin when Mitch slings an arm around his shoulders, looking out across the Atlas mountains from a clifftop.

Mitch’s hand is closed, so it feels more like a rest, his forearm propped on Adam’s shoulder, the muscular curve of his arm pressed warmly across his back. It’s a weird, unsteady-feeling form of contact - Mitch is too short to do it to him, really, leaning upwards awkwardly with his arm above his own shoulder.

Well, fuck it, the PR team must have someone with video editing skills if they don’t like it - he responds with his own arm round Mitch’s waist, which earns him a head of warm, spiky hair against his shoulder. He keeps his own hand away from Mitch’s waist, mirrors the Kiwi in the very ‘no homo’ awkwardness while leaning very slightly into where Mitch is resting on him.

He vaguely hears one of the producers make an approving comment about team spirit and smirks, their backs safely turned to the rest of the team. He feels Mitch turn his head to hide a grin in Adam’s shoulder, resting against him for another few seconds before laughing and heading back towards the car, no tension in the moment.

Ok, that was fine - no weird feelings, apart from thinking the team would probably be a bit alarmed to discover their drivers were into Netflix and pyjama snuggling. But hey, at least they’re not trying to kill each other or something unhelpful and it probably saves on the sports psychologist bill. Or indicates they need one. Whatever.

He just enjoys the rest of the trip, relaxing into admiring the Moroccan landscapes, drinking too-sweet tea and managing to just about restrain himself from critiquing Mitch’s driving because no good can come of that. Mitch is funny, good company and he feels like the strangeness of the last race weekend completely dissipates. Fine - they’re allowed to be kind of weird occasionally, doesn’t have to be a trend.

Mitch doesn’t knock on his door that evening, after dinner and he mostly ignores the swirl of disappointment because he really does have shit to do and it’s all so fucking irrelevant. It isn’t until he’s in bed, trying to be an adult and not fall asleep with the telly on as some kind of lame company, that he really starts listening for any movement outside the door, desultory channel hopping not enough to keep him from wondering what Mitch is up to.

They haven't got next door rooms this time, which is probably for the best - he thinks Mitch is actually on a different floor so whatever the Kiwi’s doing, he won't know about it. Mitch could be off getting reamed by the entire Paddock while Adam's watching a weird French soap that the Arabic subtitles on aren't providing any illumination into.

Maybe his teammate _asked_ to be far away, so he can fuck who he likes without Adam sticking his nose in. Or dick, of course. That doesn't seem likely though - Mitch has only got clingier since the last race weekend, if anything so he's probably just off in the gym doing another 5000 sit ups or something.

He realises he has his hand in his own pyjamas and rolls his eyes at himself so hard he’s surprised he doesn't fall out of bed. For god’s sake.

Rolling over onto his front, he flicks the TV off and resolves he is absolutely not allowed a wank if he's going to be like this, settles in to sleep without a pillow to hug. He has endless, echoey dreams about thinking he hears a knock at the door, wakes up feeling a bit empty.

The problem with race weekends is you actually get quite a lot of weird downtime where you can't really do very much, some of it in company. He’s sort of hanging around waiting to be shuffled through some press stuff when Nick corners him.

“Really?” Adam pre-emptively hates himself about the fact he doesn’t need Nick to explain what he’s asking. Daniel did talk, then - of course he fucking did.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He’s very good at poker face, actually - Nick’s got fuck-all on the average contract negotiation. Anyway, what’s all this supposed to be - Adam knows damn well Heidfield has got acquainted with a few of his own teammates, over the years so he can back right off from anything judgemental.

“You’re pretending to fuck Mitch to save him for Felix or something - I didn’t expect it.” Oh ok what he’s gonna have to react to this fast, that’s a very unexpected level of insight come on Carroll think qu-

“Who says pretending?” Whatever, Nick probably won’t notice that isn’t really English, he got the slightly embarrassed, slightly sleazy grin down. Nevermind he’s somehow having a conversation about this with Heidfield and he still hasn’t actually managed to have one with Mitch.

He tries, for what feels like the billionth time in the last month, to work out what Mitch would want, in the two or three seconds that Nick spends giving him an appraising look before speaking again.

“He did.”

“Who did what?” He’s genuinely lost the thread of the conversation for a second, his thoughts having charged away from what he’d just said so fast he’ has to run a quick replay of the last 15 seconds.

“Don’t play stupid, I know you’re not. Mitch said you were only faking it - I’m not judging, they’re always at it.” Not for the first time, he wonders if this whole thing is some kind of bizarre mind game his teammate is playing because how the fuck has Mitch talked to Nick about them fucking? Or well, not.

“I asked him - never believe anything Abt says.” Nick looks friendly, relaxed about the conversation which is good because Adam feels 110% the opposite. Oh, they really should have had that conversation about whether Mitch wanted to carry on pretending to fuck.

Adam makes a noncommittal noise and tries to restrain himself from getting his phone out right now to ask what possible motivation Mitch could have for blowing their cover on the dodgy misdirection, let alone what that means in terms of actually fucking. Mitch has been very gently flirting with him - or well, he’d thought so - sitting a little too close and smiling a lot at him. Which doesn’t necessarily mean anything but was an interesting development, alongside the general over-the-topness of the Kiwi’s usual social interactions.

Nick gives him a half-disapproving, half-sympathetic look, “Look, if you want-”

“Has anyone seen Robin?” Ant looks so genuinely concerned, big, dark eyes annoyingly reminiscent of Mitch, that Adam’s own teammate-related issues seem entirely dwarfed. This paddock is truly a selection of people who’ve survived drama and lived to deliver the anecdotes very elaborately and with only a bit of embellishment.

Once he’s safely away from any Amlin Andretti complications and boredly poking his phone before he apparently needs to do something for Snapchat, he succumbs completely to the Mitch-texting urge. _“Heidfield’s as bad as Abt, watch out for gossip”_ seems like the sort of thing he can’t be incriminated on but gets the message across.

He does actually quite like Snapchat but doesn’t really see the point of it in a work capacity, as opposed to sending cute family videos. Mitch probably would have been better for this, really - but whatever, he can read a script. Duties discharged, he sneaks a look at his own phone, assuming Mitch won’t have said anything too lewd for a preview screen and is surprised to see he has three missed calls from his teammate.

Also two text messages, one of which just says “ _oh shit”_ and the follow up of “ _fuck yeah I was thinking we needed to talk about that are you around?”_

Aren’t young people meant to hate phonecalls? He kind of hates phonecalls himself, frankly but ok, good, message received - he shoots Mitch a quick text saying he’s free in 20 minutes but maybe back at the hotel would be a better idea and then agonises through the next three hours of media commitments and standing around.

Mitch replies too fast, which Adam now thinks may be basically his teammate’s problem in life - earnestly overeager, running a mile down a road as someone gives him ten yards - _“oh ok yeah I’m in 204.”_

They are on totally different floors then, Adam on the fourth. He’s quietly pleased that Mitch has the lower room, although neither of them is supposed to be the ‘lead’ driver and also relative elevation means nothing, given it’s almost certainly just reallocations from squishing an entire international climate change conference aside to make way for the whole of Formula E.

He sends back _“Sure, see you before dinner”_ and then tries to pretend he understands more French than he actually does for fifteen quite stressful minutes of something he’s reasonably sure is press not sponsor related. At this point in the day, who knows or cares?

He’s so fucking eager to just get down to the track and get in the car for tomorrow’s shakedown that he manages to completely forget about anything to do with touching his teammate’s dick until he’s in a car on the way back to the hotel and has to tilt his phone away from the engineer he’s sitting next to quite quickly when he sees he’s got a message from Mitch.

He instantly feels bad about having ignored it for a few hours - which is stupid because he’s been busy, not specifically ignoring Mitch. But also if he’d sent _“Sorry about Nick”_ and received no reply, he’d assume he was angry. Which is probably a few more layers away from the first person than he can handle right now but still - whoops. He sends back a quick _“Don’t worry, he’s awful - see you in a minute”_ and hopes that will be placating enough that Mitch won’t be completely freaked out.

Or maybe Mitch won’t care. He’s less and less confident he really knows what’s going on in the younger man’s head, if anything at all is. Taking the plastic folder of tonight’s commitments he’s handed on his way through reception, he heads to the lift clutching it like a good boy who is definitely going to his own room to prep like a proper top flight driver.

(Although, if memory serves him, ‘heading to your teammate’s room for an awkward discussion about sex’ is pretty team-friendly in comparison to what 90% of drivers might do at this point. At least there’s not likely to be violence, drugs or damage to anyone’s reputation.)

(Any more damage, at least.)

He vaguely tries to decipher the evening’s schedule through the blue plastic, without actually opening it, to avoid making eye contact with anyone else in the lift. Which makes him forget he’s trying to go to the second floor and have to take another run at it when the lift goes up to the fifth and he just hopes no one else notices.

At least he manages to guess the right way out of the lift to Mitch’s room and get to the door without incident. He knocks way too quietly the first time, given he can hear Mitch has the telly on and spends and unnecessary extra 45 seconds in the hallway before he tries again and hears the sort of clatter he’s come to associate with any movement from his teammate progress towards the door.

He’s so lost in the few seconds of wondering what the fuck he’s going to say to Mitch that he doesn’t notice Lucas coming down the corridor towards him, until he’s startled by Mitch opening the door and Di Grassi starting to say something, then just smirking and raising an eyebrow when Mitch drags him inside and shuts the door before Adam knows what’s going on. Do ABT-Schaeffer not have rooms? Are they always lurking in corridors? Can he ask the team to try really hard to book a different hotel in Vegas?

He’s kind of jammed between the door and a Mitch who looks slightly surprised by his own actions, his hand still on Adam’s elbow where he’d grabbed at him, Adam’s hand on his waist where he’d tried to steady the smaller man and stop him dragging them any further.

He tries to speak quietly enough that it won’t travel through the wood of the door - “Well I guess Lucas is going to think we’re not faking it.”

Mitch pulls a face and then seems to hesitate for a long second before stepping back, heading off into the room and hopping onto the bed to dive for the TV remote, going to turn off the music channel he’s left it on. Adam nearly dives at him, then nearly says ‘no,’ thinks better of it before he triggers either off them into a weird memory hole and finally settles on “Maybe leave it on, bit of background noise?”

Mitch looks at the remote in his hand, then Adam, nods slightly absently and moves into a cross-legged sit. He looks pretty calm, all things considered but Adam feels acutely aware of his own movements, mirroring Mitch’s position on the other side of the bed when he realises there isn’t a chair. Or well, not one Mitch isn’t using to prop an open suitcase on.

“Err, so-”

Mitch is already talking at the same time as him but faster - “Are we pretending to fuck?”

Adam resists the urge to take a breath, “The pretending or the fucking?”

Mitch laughs very genuinely at that, looks down into his lap and then up again at Adam, sheepish, “You fucking tell me, dude.”

He does let himself take a steadying breath, this time - he doesn’t want Mitch to think this is casual to him, that he doesn’t feel the frankly fucking startling amount of insecurity roiling off the younger man. “I guess - I thought we were pretending. And we can, like, that’s no problem but I don’t want to stop you having fun if you want to. And um, sorry for the weird thing in Hong Kong - I don’t expect… we don’t have to. To pretend.”

He takes a vastly shakier breath at the end of his stuttering, having comprehensively fucked up everything he’s somehow spent hours not quite thinking through, over the past month. Mitch grins at him, gentle and open and - there’s no real word for it but like they’re on a level, that Mitch is looking at him as a peer suddenly.

Adam can’t resist pulling on another thread, though - if they’re talking then they have to untangle it, “Why did you tell Nick we were faking?”

Mitch looks away, squirming a bit and he almost regrets asking but he _has_ to know this, seriously or else he can’t do whatever they decide to. It takes a couple of seconds for the younger man to reply and it sounds a bit like he’s deliberately making his voice harsh - or that he’s more upset than he was seconds earlier, when he replies.

“I didn’t want him to think you were a creep, screwing the twinks.”

Adam involuntarily hisses at that, a sharp intake of breath - flails for a second because does that mean _Mitch_ thinks he’s a creep? God, he’d talked himself out of that being the case but what else is he, groping younger men and trying to make himself feel better cus he cuddled him after?

Mitch is drawing on the duvet in front of him, dragging lines in with his fingers and then smoothing them away. “Like, I know you’re not interested - it’s fine. I don’t really screw straight guys.”

“I’m not -” he stops himself, tries again because some things are easier to refute, “I’m not _not_ interested. But it’s pretty confusing. And I’m really - fuck, I’m _really_ sorry for being a creep.”

He realises he’s doing the same thing to the duvet that Mitch was when warm, bronzed fingers clasp round his and hold both of their hands still. His teammate’s eyes are fairly unreadable, when he looks up, Mitch’s jaw slightly tight like he’s running through decisions.

“I don’t - you’re not creepy.” Mitch’s smile is slightly nervous, “Like, I like you - you seem like a decent bloke. I’m just a bit, you know” - he waves the hand that isn’t holding Adam’s - “fuckin’ _extra_.”

Adam doesn’t want to admit to not knowing what the fuck _that_ means because he gets the gist at least, which is that Mitch thinks it’s himself not Adam. Well, it’s them both - “Do you seriously want to fuck?”

Mitch shrugs and looks down at their hands, rubbing his thumb over Adam’s fingers. “I mean? Yeah. But not - I don’t wanna just like fuck in the shower right now, y’know?”

Maybe that’s the antipodean equivalent of saying, essentially, that he thinks Adam should at least buy him a drink first. He tightens his fingers around Mitch’s for a few seconds, tangling them - holding hands is a weird one. You can absolutely, totally hold hands with someone platonically - indeed, the vast majority of the time he’s been holding someone’s hand for the last few years has been one of his kids’.

But it’s an odd, loving thing - he can feel Mitch’s pulse, between the pads of their fingers, almost in time with his own. Concentrating on it stops him thinking about the fact Mitch just said he wants to have some kind of sex with Adam - but not casually. Maybe Mitch really doesn’t like that, at all; that would be a problem if the majority of people he could contemplate having sex with are other drivers or at least, in motorsport.

He presses their fingers together again and then de-links them, strokes his fingers over Mitch’s knuckles and wrist before he takes his hand back, putting it palm-down against the aircon-cooled sheet. His teammate smiles at him - a little, quick grin that seems genuine, “I got season four, if you want?”

Adam’s vaguely aware they’ve sorted nothing out at all but he wants a conversational out, too - they’re at a good enough place. He nods, shifting over to sit against the headboard while Mitch hops off the bed to switch off the telly - currently showing Rihanna asking someone to _kiss it, kiss it better baby -_ and dig out his iPad.

Mitch seems less confident about - to put it bluntly - crawling all over him this time, which is understandable and also way better for Adam’s mental health, frankly. They end up sitting next to each other, turned slightly into each other and it's not especially comfortable, propping himself awkwardly on an arm to stop curling round Mitch and make space for the iPad to sit between them but maybe it's where they should be.

Adam can feel the tension in Mitch, both of them semi-rigid against the mattress in slight stress positions but they're athletes, this is doable. He loses himself in watching shit get seriously fucked up on the small screen, trying to pick up the threads of storylines he's skipped a few episodes of.

It's warm and lazy and despite the carnage he somehow realises he's half asleep when he jolts forwards off the prop of his elbow and nearly falls onto a similarly drowsy Mitch. Christ, drivers really are useless - the cats of the athletics world, demanding constant attention and reassurance and then hissing off if anyone wants them to do something they don't like like get in a Lada or something, falling asleep as soon as they’re not behind a wheel.

Mitch reaches a hand out, against his chest, fingers slightly curled over his collarbone and for a heartstopping, sleepy second he thinks his teammate will kiss him before realising he's just stabilising them, muscles flexing distractingly in his forearm. Mitch blinks up at him, shakes his head like he's trying to clear it of sleep and then picks up the iPad, rolls round and puts his back against Adam.

He tries to remind himself to breathe while Mitch rearranges the screen to be on the bed in front of him then cranes his neck round and says “ _Dude”_ in such a disparaging way it galvanises his brain into action. He slides his arm under Mitch’s neck, shifts around a little and props his own neck on a pillow, so he can see over Mitch’s shoulder even with his nose in his hair.

Mitch smells slightly gross, like he may not have showered since they got back but hey, neither has Adam and it's kind of nice, salty and dusty and earthy rather than an artificial perfume. He’s too-warm but in a pleasant way, under the over-iced aircon and Adam relaxes fully against him, feels Mitch wriggle back a little against him and it’s just cuddly and sleepy and he can’t even concentrate on half his favourites getting murdered on the iPad because Mitch’s hair is really surprisingly soft and he’s way more exhausted than he thought.

Which is how they _do_ end up waking up together, his instinct to curl tightly against a body in his arms too strong to resist stroking his hands down, still-sleep-clogged brain registering it’s Mitch’s team shirt his fingers are running over not one of Claire’s nighties. Mitch makes a soft sound, grabs his hand and holds it against his own hip for a second, Adam’s fingers splaying over the ridge of muscle above his hipbone where his shirt’s ridden up.

He nuzzles Mitch back down, stroking very lightly at his skin and getting a barely audible, contented sound out of him. Both of them still have their eyes closed - or well, Adam does and he assumes Mitch does too - and it’s so very, very easy to touch like this. If he just convinces himself he’s a bit more asleep than he really is, they can stay in this hinterland between pretend and real where the slight hitches in both their breathing could _almost_ be innocent.

Mitch rolls over slightly, back into him - it’s barely a movement, more a transfer of weight but it means he can nuzzle at his face, Adam’s nose against his teammate’s cheekbone and his fingers across Mitch’s waist have dipped lower, where the younger man has moved into his touch. One fingertip is tantalisingly close to the waistband of Mitch’s underwear, the slightest rub of the elastic - if Mitch moves again, even a few millimetres, Adam’s fingers would be threading through the hair that trails down his stomach and below the line of his jeans, short like he’s in the habit of waxing it.

Mitch moves his leg, rubbing a socked foot up Adam’s shin and he follows the movement, raises his knee in a lazy, slow motion to lift Mitch’s thigh on his. His teammate makes another contented noise and Adam hums against his temple, lips against Mitch’s skin as the Kiwi’s arm brushes over his, reaching back to palm Adam’s arse through his jeans, gently pulling their bodies closer and making Adam’s breath hitch because _shit_ it feels like Mitch wanting him, for real and he’s so fucking turned on.

The movement’s pushed Mitch’s hips against his crotch, Adam’s cock hard against four layers of clothing and the slight gap between Mitch’s arse cheeks where his leg is lifted. His fingers have slipped below Mitch’s waistband, playing very gently across the younger man’s hot skin and stroking through the downy hair across hard muscle. He’d need to move his hand just a _bit_ more to touch Mitch’s cock, can feel it twitch through the shift in the fabric of his underwear every time he moves his finger across Mitch’s skin, then the coiling-uncoiling arch of his whole body when he drags his thumbnail down his hipbone.

He hums against Mitch’s skin again, when the smaller man grinds back against him and fuck but hard muscle against hard muscle across his thighs and crotch feels so satisfying and when Mitch’s hand on his arse grips hard he can’t stop the half-moan, half-growl at the back of his throat. It snaps him into action, sliding his hand across Mitch’s skin to close his fingers around his dick while Mitch scrabbles to awkwardly get his hand into Adam’s own jeans, has just got an eager fingertip to the head of his cock when someone knocks on the door.

“Not now - sleeping.” Mitch’s voice echoes too loud in the room, slightly hoarse and Adam suddenly realises he’s somehow still got the earphone in from when they were watching telly, doesn’t want to take his hand out of Mitch’s pants to do anything about it, rubbing his thumb down the silky, swollen skin of the underside of his dick.

He thinks the spell might be broken, now but he’s beyond worked up at this point, even if they do have to do it with eyes open and at this point it’s just that Mitch is fucking _sexy_ and definitely appears to think he is, too  and they’re just human beings with needs that they’re not gonna be allowed to indulge.

“No, you’re meant to be downstairs in five minutes - open the door. And do you know where Adam is?” It’s delivered with the polite, eye-rolling sternness of someone who’s been wrangling drivers (or their executive equivalents) for decades and _fuck._

Mitch descends into a fit of giggles, without actually removing his hand from Adam’s pants. Which is distracting when someone’s jiggling with laughter against him and also _shit_ he really, really needs to not look like he’s just been fumbling around with his teammate, pulls back a little from where he’s pressed their faces together and loosens his fingers from Mitch’s cock, reluctantly withdraws his hand as though they might somehow find an excuse to carry on, still. Mitch sighs, pulls his own hand back and shrugs slightly sulkily against Adam, catching their fingers together for a strange, affectionate second before he shouts back.

“Fuck, sorry - I’m com-” Mitch looks like he’s going to hurt himself, coughing into laughter at the word ‘coming’ and that’s _hopelessly_ childish but it sets Adam off as well and he really needs to get off Mitch’s bed and rearrange his clothes and think of a plausible reason he might be in here instead of pulling Mitch close for a second while they’re both laughing.

Mitch wriggles round, tangles their legs for a second and then completely fucks Adam up by kissing him - just a quick, if slightly wet and forceful in all the best ways, press of their lips together with Mitch’s hand gently against his jaw. It’s sweet and soft and such a confusing addition to what just happened that he whimpers a bit into it, which makes Mitch look very… innocently pleased, their eyes meeting as he pulls back, just before he hops off the bed.

Adam has the brain to mirror him, tries to smooth out first the bedspread, then his own clothes, while desperately racking his brain for any reason at all he’d be in Mitch’s room. He panics for a few seconds before diving for the plastic folder of briefing notes and unceremoniously dumping it across the covers, hurling himself down like he’d been looking at it the whole time, yes ma’am.

He really hopes he doesn’t look as dishevelled and worked up as he still feels, sprawling on his front to consider the menu of somewhere they’re apparently going while Mitch apologises to Kirsten-or-something-like-that, makes a wholly inappropriate joke about not wanting roomservice to see the state of his bathroom yet, is his usual weird, charming self.

Well, Adam can be charming too - looks up from what he’s reading, studiously not thinking about the residual semi he’s uncomfortably lying on. “Hey, sorry - we were just going through things.”

Looking up, he can see Mitch looks really very ...well, ‘prettily aroused’ is probably not a thing he should be thinking about his teammate but since they’ve very much gone there he might as well be honest; he’s got a bit of a flush to him, overexcitedly bright-eyed. He hopes he doesn’t look quite as obvious, although he does have this really awful tendency to go a bit pink when he’s turned on and can feel a telltale glow across his cheekbones.

Pretty-sure-it’s-Kirsten-but-she’s-Mitch’s-PR-lady-sue-him-he-can’t-remember-everything gives him a _deeply_ scrutinising look that says he’s fooling no one, although he’s fairly sure she can’t work out what kind of misbehaviour they’d been getting into. If it’s even misbehaviour round here, everyone seems a bit blatant about it.

(He’s pretty sure it _is_ considered misbehaviour to roll around in the 22-year-old’s bed, tell Nick Heidfeld you’re fucking him and growl at ABT-Schaeffer every time they so much as think about that ass but hey it’s only round two this can surely escalate)

Mitch nearly sits down on the bed, before Kirsten gives him a shove in the direction of the bathroom and tells him to sort out his hair, starts re-gathering the paper on the bed into the right order. Adam feels vaguely resentful that Mitch has been sent off to get rid of the spiky ruffle at the back of his neck where Adam’s nose had been pressed, also that his PR lady never seems this concerned about his own appearance.

“You’re not arguing, are you?” Kirsten hisses at him when Mitch closes the bathroom door and he’s glad she’s got it wrong but also still slightly too giggly not to actually laugh at that.

“God, no. No. He’s a good kid.” She smiles at that, clearly decides they’re just typically stupid drivers and gets out her phone to do whatever incredibly fraught-looking thing it is that PR people do with their phones. Sexting, maybe.

Mitch looks disappointingly well-groomed when he emerges from the bathroom and kind of laughs at Adam being sprawled on the bed, says he’s gonna paint him like a French girl. Adam throws a pillow at him as he gets up and it might be a bit too flirty but it all seems fair game as the team round them up into a car for whatever nonsense the evening holds.

Nothing happens at the whirl of events they’re shoved through - including _three_ drinks receptions neither of them can have anything stronger than mint tea at. Mitch does smile at him a few times in a particularly dazzling way and he finds himself enjoying looking at him, thinking about the curve of his shoulders and the way it felt pressed against Adam’s chest. It doesn’t feel anxiety-inducing, just something kind of nice to think about while he’s trying not to look bored.

They end up in the lift at the same time , although obviously not going to the same place and for a second something tugs around in his chest about that but he can have a wank in the bath if he really wants to relive earlier. Mitch touches the backs of their wrists together for the two floors they’re both in there and he tries to not feel too sappy about it - something about the illicit encounter earlier having made him feel nothing but fond.

Mitch gives him a grin with zero apology and something he’s thrill-horrified to realise is a bit of promise in it and struts out at his floor, phone already in his hand to text someone before the doors have even closed again.

Adam’s a bit surprised to discover it’s him - “ _probably better get an early night, already full of [aubergine emoji] lol - see you tomorrow x”_

It’s kind of incomprehensible for a second, until he realises Mitch is equating the grilled aubergines they definitely ate too much of with dick. Oh god, is he _actually_ twelve? Adam wanders down the corridor of his own floor, nodding vaguely at people he’s reasonably sure are connected to the team, trying to master the walking-and-texting thing that he hears teenagers are very into while he’s asking Claire what time’s good for Skype.

He sends Mitch “ _yeah think I’m suffering from all the [cockerel emoji] already. Sleep well x”_ and feels quite pleased with himself, allows himself some pillow-spooning after he’s said goodnight to the kids. It takes two to flirt.

The next day is a frantic blur of shakedown, dust, remembering he should probably spend a lot less time napping with his teammate and a lot more time in the gym. The track walk features a bit of Mitch’s tendency to stand massively too close to him despite the fact the track blatantly has plenty of space for both of them - Adam hasn’t been _per se_ Instagram stalking him but having investigated, he thinks that’s just Mitch’s reaction to all his teammates, shyly insistent on getting all up in their faces constantly.

Mitch also manages to steal his bottle of water, grabbing at Adam’s hand while he’s trying to pay attention to his engineer and somehow prying it out of his fingers. He’s immediately distracted by the sight of water dripping down his teammate’s neck, pretty sure Mitch is doing it deliberately when he looks across at Adam with wet lips, licks them and grins, “Sorry, dunno where mine’s gone.”

He shakes his head, realises Mitch has left their fingers entwined from committing the theft. God, is he a hand-holder? That’s quite cute, if wildly inappropriate - he moves his hand into a better grip for a second, squeezes, feels an answering pressure and turns back to being told where he’s got to worry about punting it into the wall.

Mitch hugs him good luck before the shakedown but that’s entirely de rigeur and anyway he’s concentrating on the car by that point. Fuck, it’s great having a single seater drive - even in a series as alien as the power-management, hypertechnical intricacies of Formula E. The roughness of feeling every single jolt, the visceral proximity of every sound and smell and fuck but the _speed_ \- the force of the electrical acceleration more than makes up for the lower top end and he just loves every fucking thing about racing.

He sleeps on his own that night again - pillow cuddling aside - and is mercifully untroubled by anything that would interrupt just having a fucking great pre-race snooze, hopes Mitch has a similarly good night. He wants to beat him, obviously but the team doing well is more important, currently.

It’s kind of nice having someone who persistently hangs out with you at the track - he’d got used to this sort of thing in Endurance but it’s always different when it’s a team sport, whereas he and Mitch are actually directly in competition with each other. Not that this seems to bother the Kiwi in terms of friendliness, which is good because Adam hates bullshit between teammates and likes having someone to chat to during the interminable-feeling millions of things that aren’t being in the car, especially someone with as wicked a sense of humor as Mitch, is definitely not a hardship.

It’s a pretty shit day for them, in the end. Which is to be expected - everyone keeps repeating how this is a difficult series to get the hang of, especially as a manufacturer and it’s not like he and Mitch really know what they’re doing either. Which does nothing for his own slightly bruised ego and definitely isn’t likely to be much comfort to Mitch so he slinks off into his room to call Claire and lick his wounds, lets Mitch run around the old town with Ant on his own.

Mitch texts him late at night - _“ah well, on to the next one - marrakesh is great anyway. Been cool hanging out with you, see you back on the rainy island x”_

He concludes Mitch is a bit drunk and has forgotten that they’re getting the same flight tomorrow, rolls over and drifts off to sleep before he sends a reply.

The next day he discovers it’s him who’s forgotten they’re getting different flights - suddenly succumbing to Mitch’s tendency to assume they live in the same place, apparently - and guiltily messages back, says it’s been cool seeing Mitch too, asks him when he’s next at the factory.

He misses the little Kiwi, boredly pottering around Menara airport after his free WiFi access allocation runs out and he reminds himself he really doesn’t want to spend a few hundred quid on data. It would be the ideal moment to have someone annoyingly enthusiastic about being in his company around, really - Mitch would’ve bitched with him about all the idiots cluttering up the space between chairs and also why the hell he had to be here three hours early for his flight, the place is miniature.

Mitch keeps in touch, this time - not constantly but there’s a text every few days, the odd extended conversation about whatever the fuck they’re doing with the car and a playful debate about what the hell’s going on in The Good Wife, which he was surprised to find out Mitch was also catching up on. He ends up friending Mitch on Playstation Network so they can race against each other in a desperate attempt to not completely embarrass themselves in Vegas. Well, Mitch can beat him and he can accept that he’s going to be completely embarrassed in Vegas but at least he’s got a vague idea of what the fuck they’re doing, now.

Other than that, he doesn’t really think about Mitch, beyond confessing getting into some spoon-groping with him to Claire, who rolls her eyes at him and tells him to sort out the kids’ dinner and stop being pathetic over a 22-year-old. Mitch sends him a couple of pictures of stuff at the factory and some weird dogs he saw on a run and he sends a couple of nice beach shots back, tries not to be too fond of the selfie Mitch sends in the latest team gear, passing through the factory.

Mitch disappears off to the southern hemisphere for Christmas and his texts get more irregular, time difference making the conversation stutter, while his Instagram becomes more sickeningly sun-soaked. Adam ends up booking a trip to Dubai just for the sake of keeping up some glamour and also because dammit he likes being able to take his wife fancy places.

They get given different schedules for Vegas and he’s… well, he’s not really looking forward to this, if he’s honest. The eRace experiences he’s had so far do not suggest this is his forte and although Mitch is a lot better at it than he is, he’s a bit ambivalent about them both being sidelined for the sim racer. Which is silly and ego-driven in a way he’s not normally but it’s an odd thing to be forced to do.

The sweetener is seeing Mitch again, getting to spend time with his teammate. And you know, what happens in Vegas stays probably at the forefront of his brain for a worryingly lengthy time, to the exasperated amusement of the mother of his children. Mitch is sent on some sort of roadtrip with vloggers and he tries not to worry about it, assumes his teammate won’t be getting fucked on the backseat of the jag - and berates himself for sticking his fucking nose in, texting increasingly lewd innuendo until Mitch finally reaches vice city.

He spends his own flight deep in thought about various things, only 45 minutes of which he lets himself dedicate to the question of whether Mitch and Richie Stanaway are shagging. Richie seems like… well, no, Richie does _not_ seem like a good boyfriend, at all but he seems like a _fun_ guy to hang out with and Mitch looks relaxed around him.

He’s glad if Mitch is getting some action, likes the idea of them lying around half-dressed in the New Zealand summer, kissing and fucking in hot, languid ways. He doesn’t want to be possessive of Mitch, he just doesn’t want some twat called _Syndicate_ to upset his teammate - he needs Mitch to cry on when they’re completely pasted into mush by the sim racers.

The hotel is stupidly fancy, of course. Lying sprawled on his bed, looking out over the city through the absurd floor-to-ceiling windows, he feels enjoyably sleazy enough that he’s just contemplating a fully nude, treating himself wank when Mitch texts and _hell yes_ he is going to go there.

“ _Hey are you up to anything? Kinda bored and the gym’s closed. Xxx”_ \- _three_ kisses; well then. He sends back “ _literally just lying on my bed staring at space - room 867”_ and he doesn’t even care if that’s a little bit blatant. He’s missed Mitch and he’s not gonna pretend he wants to go clubbing or something - he just wants company and, yeah, sure, some kind of fucking - it’s rude not to, in Vegas.

Mitch is in his gym gear, when he appears at the door - boredom-exercising is a level of commitment Adam can’t pretend to have; to be fair, he doesn’t usually have time to get bored. The leggings and tight, longsleeved top highlight every lovely curve of muscle on his teammate and for a second he thinks about telling him not to wear that when Daniel’s around but also Abt can fuck off because it’s Adam who gets to touch.

He drags Mitch into the room without even bothering to say hello, lets the Kiwi wind himself straight up against Adam’s chest, kicking the door closed behind him. Mitch stares at him for a second, says “ _hi dude”_ and straight-up jumps him, arms around Adam’s neck as his legs go around his hips.

Adam’s laughing as he grabs at his teammate, pulling him a bit closer as he leans back against the wall to support their joint weight easier, “Missed you too, by the way.”

Mitch grins very brightly at him, “Shame you’re already married or we could do this properly. I bet Ant and Robin do.”

Adam feels a burst of weird affection for this strange non-sequitur of a human being he works with, shaking his head as he laughs again and Mitch kisses him, sweet and insistent and like he’s trying not to say he really wants Adam to romance him. Speaking more to Mitch, even if it’s only by text, in the last few weeks has given him a surprising amount of insight into the way the Kiwi’s brain works; he’s exactly as headlong towards insecurity as Adam had suspected but also playful, like a puppy and for someone who clearly really _wants_ to be told he’s working very hard and being good, extremely inclined to misbehaviour.

He kisses like he does everything - too forward and desperate to get approval for it; Adam licks into his mouth when Mitch runs his tongue along his lips and getting a response from him clearly does good things to his teammate, Mitch wriggling closer, tightening his legs around Adam’s waist.

Mitch whines, clambering on him a bit and Adam tries to shove him off, wanting to get them to the bed. He’s not sure what he thinks of kissing Mitch, still - he’s never kissed another man before but, without wanting to be weird about it, Mitch sort of feels like he doesn’t count on some weird level. Not that Adam thinks he’s a woman but just that Mitch feels like he lives outside rules of convention on anything, including other people’s sexuality.

And he’s so pretty like this, brattily refusing to unhook himself from Adam, insisting on more kisses and leaning into Adam’s hands where he’s holding him up by his thighs. It’s ridiculous, diva-y and he desperately wants to keep making Mitch drop breathy little sounds and cling onto him. But he also kind really wants to do it in the giant bed.

“C’mon, I wanna fuck in bed.” He shocks himself, definitely shocks Mitch by saying it - shit, he’d never really said it that bluntly, barely even thought it but it’s hard to imagine what else he’d want, making out with his teammate while they’re practically grinding on each other.

Mitch grins brightly at him and kisses him again, with some ferocity this time, makes a pleased humming sound and now he’s fucking said it everything is so real and sensual. Mitch’s thighs are tense and the hard curve of muscle feels good to dig his fingers into, cupping Mitch’s arse and pulling him against himself, trying to feel if he’s hard yet because Adam certainly fucking is.

Maybe it’s just boredom fucking - defaulting through basic proximity because they are men who drive cars in circles for a living and perhaps not towering intellects but it’s also just _nice._ Adam likes nice, it’s why he enjoys curling up in bed with his wife and always steered well clear of finding out why so many other drivers defer respect to Andre Lotterer. He lets go of Mitch’s arse, lets the Kiwi finally unhook his legs and just press up against Adam before they break the kiss, his fingers running through Mitch’s hair.

“Fuck,” Mitch looks as dishevelled as when they were interrupted in Marrakesh already, leggings doing nothing to disguise his dick and top ridden up a little. Adam wants to tear his clothes off but - and maybe it’s a bit late to be worrying about this - he wants to take it slow; so long as they both come it doesn’t matter if that’s just from dry humping.

“Bed,” he re-emphasises it because Mitch is looking a bit like he wants to just climb him again and it’s extremely flattering and enough of a turn-on that there’s a strong risk of them grinding against the wall all night.

The transition is a little awkward, Mitch toeing off his trainers while Adam’s tugging his arm to get him onto the luridly purple, satin sheets and get their bodies back together. Mitch scrambles onto the bed, lying down to face him and he looks so beautiful, ruffled hair and kiss-reddened lips, the glow of arousal and the way it makes you a bit less self-conscious all over him.

He reaches out a hand to trace through Mitch’s hair, over his cheekbone, cupping his face against the bed and Mitch closes his eyes, blushes slightly and looks so tenderly _pleased._ If he was having skanky southern hemisphere sex with Richie Adam thinks it wouldn’t have been like this, that he gets some part of Mitch that most people don’t.

Mitch nuzzles his hand and he pulls him in, arms going around him and he almost presses Mitch to his chest, more snuggly than hot. His teammate makes such a noise of contented, approving longing that he can’t resist running his hands all over Mitch, teasingly stroking down his spine and groping at his arse. He _wants_ and Mitch does too, he can feel him moving against him, reaching between them to undo Adam’s belt.

He shifts a little so they can kiss again, as Mitch wins his brief tussle with a buckle and goes to undo Adam’s fly. He wants to let Mitch set the pace, this time, not just go straight in for fumbling at him - doing this, they should be on as equal ground as they are everywhere and his teammate seems fine with taking the initiative.

Mitch hums into the kiss, moves his hand up to push at Adam’s shoulder, “Lie back.”

He’d thought about this, while Mitch was clambering on him earlier - the Kiwi riding his thighs, Adam inside him maybe, one day. He likes the idea of seeing Mitch come, eyes closed and stroking his own dick, clenching around him. That’s not what they’re doing now - even if Mitch suggests it he’s not ready for that kind of thing, feels like he’d lose a bit of himself in Mitch if they went that far - but it’s definitely an image that won’t _stop_ him coming quite hard fairly soon.

Mitch does straddle him, sticks his hand in Adam’s jeans and pants, pulls his dick out without looking at him - which is fine, he’s a little bit shy and overeager about this, too. Mitch pumps his dick a few times, then wriggles backwards for a second to get his lips on it and make Adam gasp and throw his head back - _fuck,_ that’s much too good, Mitch kind of kissing him, soft and wet.

It’s only for a few seconds, before Mitch wriggles back up and brings their dicks together, having yanked his own leggings down one-handedly whilst he was moving. Adam pulls him down by his free hand and kisses him as Mitch jerks them together, wetness from his mouth mixing with precome between their dicks and his fingers.

They both whimper, Adam’s free hand going to Mitch’s thigh and he can’t stop himself mumbling “oh, fuck yes” into the kiss, which only spurs Mitch on more. They shouldn’t really be doing this fully clothed but it’s way too far along to even think about removing anything and anyway Adam’s kind of hoping for a semi-naked cuddle after, once they’ve got rid of anything that might have spunk on.

He moans into Mitch’s mouth, feels his teammate pick up the pace of his hand and make his own, wanton noise when Adam grinds his hips up, “Mitch, fuck -” he starts again, breathless “Fucking make us come, I wanna feel you.”

Mitch whines like he’s never been this turned on in his life before, drops his head down onto Adam’s shoulder and just works their cocks until they’re both whimpering, shuddering and finally, he can’t hold back the tightness in his balls and just let’s Mitch stroke them both through it while he comes all over his own stomach.

“Fuck,” Mitch has sat back a little, while he was having that bit of the pleasure that’s close to blackout, is licking the spunk off his own fingers because _of course_ he’s that kind of person and it looks so satisfyingly filthy. So much so it takes Adam a second to realise Mitch hasn’t come yet, pull himself together and roll the Kiwi over onto his back, cover his body with Adam’s while he kisses him fiercely for a second, tasting himself.

He wriggles backwards, not entirely sure what he’s doing but confident Mitch is close enough to coming that it barely matters so long as he does _something,_ pulling his leggings down a bit more so he can cup his balls while he tries to work out how to get a dick in his mouth.

It’s a lot easier than he thought, so long as he doesn’t go too far and the way Mitch sobs, writhes is an immediate distraction from the fact he’s not sure he’d really thought through putting a dick _that is covered in his own come_ in his mouth. Or worked out what he was going to do when Mitch comes, as quickly as he’d predicted and straight onto his tongue - well, whatever, it’s in his mouth, he’s swallowed worse protein shakes and god but the whining and swearing of Mitch getting through an orgasm is _very_ satisfying.

“Mmm. Oh god. Fuck. Thank you.” He’s so relieved it’s not an apology he feels like something in his chest expands - christ, he is really inappropriately fond of Mitch, this is all going to be so complicated.

But they’re in Vegas, they can worry about that later. He sits back to push his jeans and pants off, pulls his semen-flecked shirt over his head and looks back to see Mitch laughing at him, “I know you don’t usually fuck men but we do get naked first, generally, dude.”

Adam just tuts at him and pulls at Mitch’s own clothes, “I’m not cuddling in a puddle of spunk, come here.”

Mitch looks at him very softly, wriggles out of his clothes and presses himself against Adam’s side, curling an arm over his chest where he’s moved to half-prop himself on the pillows. He feels very, very sated and a little like he’s achieved something, which is totally misplaced because all he’s done is get involved in the sort of sordid activity he’d spent an entire career abstaining from but whatever, Mitch is such a lovely weight against him.

“This doesn’t have to stay-” he yawns, involuntarily and feels Mitch nuzzle further into him, “in Vegas, obviously.”

Mitch hums, nestles further against him, “You’re a fucking dork, dude.”

Like either of them can fucking talk.


End file.
